The Final Spy of Gormott
by VirtualHyggeStyle
Summary: About 50 years before the main XC2 story, Mor Ardain decimated the Gormotti capital of White Chair — a strong republic protected by a stronger network of spies. And Flynn Lastell—spy, driver, & rogue—was Gormott's greatest asset. Until, that is, he's assigned a job in the growing empire.
1. Mor Ardain Noir

Chapter 1: Mor Ardain Noir

Location: Some obscure beaches in lower Mor Ardain (53 years prior to the main game)

Time: 21:17

* * *

"Oh, _come on_ , gents! Is this really necessary?"

Few things annoyed Flynn as much as a rifle to the face. And right now there were three.

"How'd ye get 'ere?" barked the Ardainian soldier through his ridiculous metal helmet. "And what's yer name? Where are yer papers?"

"Woah, slow down, fellas" said Flynn, raising a hand. "One question at a time."

"Yeah," said Atawn, "you should really ask him something like, _can you please not hurt us, sir_?"

All three soldiers gaped at the six-foot red elk that'd just spoken. "Wha— yer a _Driver_! Get him!"

Flynn rolled his eyes. "Damn it Atawn, you did that on _purpose_!"

Flynn ducked into a crouch and sprung straight into the nearest guard. The two others turned just as the first fell to the floor. Flynn used his momentum, shot a quick kick to another's knee, and hit him with a satisfying _thwack_. The third had enough sense to shoulder his gun, but by that point Flynn had closed the space between them. He hit the rifle aside and rammed his forehead into the man's nose. The soldier fell onto a few large boulders behind him.

"Don't forget me!"

Flynn turned, only to have a fist engulf his vision. The punch hit him square in the jaw and the loud Ardainian wind was lost under a sharp new ringing in his ears.

"You bastard," Flynn said through his teeth. He jumped forward and wrapped both arms around the man, sending both of them onto the sandy beach. Flynn sat up and tried prying the guard's helmet off but couldn't find purchase. Instead, he grabbed the nearest rock hit the damn thing with a vibrant _clang_. Near him, Atawn had reared on his front legs, using the hind ones to kick the other soldier into a terrifying skyward arc a few meters high. He landed a ways off with a cloud of sand.

Flynn got up and walked over to his Blade. But behind him the three men were groaning and still trying to stand.

"We don't have time for this," Flynn said. He pulled out one of his stilettos and pointed it towards the three of them. "Genesis Sleep!" The green light of Atawn's Blade Art fell over the soldiers and in moments they were unconscious and snoring.

"Atawn!" Flynn yelled. "You're supposed to be my pack-horse. My _simple animal_ pack-horse!"

The elk looked aghast. "They had guns at your head! They were about to shoot you!"

"Bah, I had that completely under control."

"Yeah? Just like how you said this beach would be deserted?"

"Well," Flynn said, looking over his shoulder, "it is now."

Atawn frowned. "I'd say we have two hours before that Art wears off. We'll have to finish this mission in that time."

"Agreed." Flynn squinted at the jagged cliffs to their right. They were sharp and looked pretty damn crumbly; four hundred meters to the top, at least, and not a path in sight. "We're going to need to scale those," he offered.

"Ready when you are."

Flynn mounted Atawn's cloth saddle and the elk leapt a good twenty meters up. They hit a boulder and Atawn jumped again, as easy as a ball bouncing off a wall, ready for the next leap. Out beyond, some rough-looking rainclouds were rolling in over the cloud sea. The World Tree had become just a few blue lights and the moon was nonexistent. If they were going to catch a ship back to Gormott, they'd need one that could weather a tough storm. And damn it, once they _were_ back, he'd finally demand a raise from those bastards at the Intelligence Council.

Flynn dismounted Atawn once they'd made it to the upper plain, where the white and orange lights of Alba Cavanich towered over them. Flynn then pulled out a knit hat and tucked his feline ears under it. The _last_ thing he needed was some Ardainian asking why a Gormotti was walking down the streets.

He pointed at Atawn. "Alright remember, you horse, me farmer. Horses carry things and _don't talk back_."

"What horse has two silver horns sprouting from its head?"

"We're going to find a card key into Hardhaigh Palace," he continued, "snoop around a bit, learn what the Ardainians are up to, and _not get caught_. Savvy?"

Atawn nodded. "Always am."

They walked through the Kedeigh Gate and all the noises and smells of industry overtook them. Dung from a dozen different beasts mixed with the saltiness of desert sand and dry hay. There were sounds of hammers on metal, chatter from the night market, and steam released from any number of surrounding machinery. The whole city was a furious machine that pumped power from the huge, overheating Titan below. And amid all that action, no one gave a damn about some laborer and his horse.

Flynn and Atawn made for a nondescript ally. Once there, they climbed to the city's metal roofs and hid among the exhaust pipes, observing the chaos below.

"There!" Flynn pointed. Four more soldiers were shuffling down a sidewalk, but these were the _palace guard_ variety, each with a card key at his hip. They walked across the street and into an inn. Flynn winked at Atawn. "Okay, I'll go grab that key and you head over to the palace wall. We'll meet there."

"You sure you'll be alright by yourself?"

Flynn grinned. "Hey, it's me we're talking about!"

He jumped down. Below was a metal catwalk that bridged his building with the inn, and with a few silent steps he'd raced over to it and made it inside. It was a quaint place, or as quaint as you'll get in Mor Ardain, where everything was cold steel and sodium lamps. An old carpet ran the length of the hallway and each wall had three or four doors. Midway down one side was another exit over to the inn's spring water baths. Flynn pocketed his hands and sauntered down it. He turned once, doubled back, and walked again in a rough semicircle. A few guests passed him here and there. And when he finally turned at the fork, he found the four palace guards standing right next to him.

Flynn smiled wide and nodded to them. They kept walking.

Immediately after they'd turned the corner, Flynn ducked into the closest room and shut the door.

If he was going to have any chance at getting that key, it _had_ to be there. The room was depressingly bare—just a small bed, night stand, and dresser. But that suited his needs perfectly. Right on top of the bed was a bundle of cast-aside Ardainian equipment, as if they'd thrown it down in a hurry to be rid of it. Flynn searched the junk, throwing grieves on the floor and bracers to the side, until finally he came up with a slender metal rectangle: a palace key card.

"Like I said, we have two days max before we get shipped out again."

"Architect's balls! Why so soon?"

The voices were right outside Flynn's door. He was on his guard before he even pocketed the key. Flynn jumped to the door and reached for the handle, but the thing started opening _inward_ before he even grasped it. He twirled away instead and, without anywhere else to hide, put his back against the wall behind the door just as it swung open.

"Don't know yet, but everyone in the palace is on edge. Feels like new orders are gonna get issued— _what_? _Who the hell was in our room?_ "

The two soldiers ran to the bed and started grabbing their equipment. They pulled up the clothing and armor and flung it back on the bed. Then one of them turned and came face to face with Flynn.

"And who the hell are _you_?"

Flynn felt his eyes go wide. With a quick jump he ran to the door and burst out of it. The two other soldiers had heard the commotion and were right outside. Flynn jumped to their right, ducked out of their reach, and raced over the old worn carpet. All four of them chased him down the hallway. Flynn raced to the stairs, hearing yells of profanity as he pushed guests out of the way. Once at the bottom, Flynn emerged into the central tavern. And there he found himself staring at _four more_ Ardainian soldiers.

"Oh damn," he said.

A hand pulled Flynn's shoulder, and one of the men hit him in the face, directly on the bruising area from earlier. Flynn's ears rang. The soldier followed this with a two-ton punch to his gut that knocked the air from his lungs. He fell onto the beer-stained tavern floor, gasping to return his breath. Hesitantly, Flynn stood up, and immediately regretted it as he felt a _crack_ at the back of his head by something hard. All at once the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Somewhere beyond the blooming numb sensation around his head, he felt his knit cap slip down to the floor.

"Wha— you're just a pathetic Gormotti?"

Flynn spat a worryingly among of red liquid to the floor. "D-damn right."

The next kick sent him a few feet backwards, and his lower back his the small side of a table. His lungs felt like they were working three times as hard for a third of the breath. His vision blurred at the edges and his face was on fire. Flynn thought he registered three of the men approaching him, right as he heard shouting from the tavern entrance.

"What they hell is this? Someone get that thing out of here!"

"Who let this damn _horse_ loose?"

Flynn pried open his eyes. Standing in the main entrance was a familiar red figure.

"Atawn!"

"Hey," grinned the elk, "figured I'd find you down here. It was _you_ that we were talking about." Atawn took one of Flynn's stilettos in his mouth and threw it towards him.

Flynn caught it, lifted the thing towards the soldiers, and with the last of his breath he spat, " _Genesis Sleep_!"

Green light covered the room and soldier, barkeep, and patron alike fell into successive unconscious. Atawn jumped over the bodies and came right up to Flynn, yanking him to his feet.

"That Art's not going to last long."

"Well, we'll just have to storm the palace at double-speed, then," Flynn wheezed.

"Wait, you didn't—"

Flynn held up the card key and grinned a ridiculous smile from under his quickly developing bruises.

"Let's go," he said.

Compared to getting the key, sneaking into the palace was quick. Atawn lead him around the buildings and jumped over the palace wall. Soon, with the help of the key, Flynn and his Blade were in the upper corridors of the building. They found a private ledge to the outside, circled around it, and continued scaling the structure until they'd made it up to the glass throne room at its top. Silently, they approached one of it's open windows.

Inside, the room was just what Flynn wanted to see: a dozen men sitting around a table. The best information always came from meetings that looked like these. Flynn first identified Emperor Ardanach right where he should be at the table's head. Near him was his blue-haired blade, Brighid, and a few other high-ranking military types. Beyond them, a few scientists were talking.

"… and we've confirmed our suspicions, sire. Our Titan Mor Ardain truly is dying."

"How long do we have?" said the Emperor, without looking up.

"We more data to create accurate models. But by our best hypothesis, we believe fifty years."

"However," continued another researcher, "we will run out of food long before that."

"Then it's just as we've discussed!" boomed a general. " _Sir_ , we cannot waste another moment! We must—"

"I've made my decision," said the Emperor, silencing him with a hand. "General Jarlin, I want four battalions of eight companies each, ready to leave immediately. Take your men to White Chair in Gormott. They're the closest Titan to us right now." He paused a moment to cough. "Establish a siphon of Gormotti crop into Mor Ardain. Do _not_ engage unless they resist. But, if they do, you have authority to destroy their capital and everything in it. I will not let our nation die. Mor Ardain will rule over Gormott if necessary."

Flynn and Atawn gave each other a knowing look.

"We need to leave," Flynn said. " _Now_."


	2. Skirmish on the Cloud Sea

Chapter 2: Skirmish on the Cloud Sea

Location: Mor Ardain docks

Time: 05:40

* * *

Things just weren't going Flynn's way. His feet hurt, his face was bruised, and his home was about to be obliterated by the entire Ardainian armada. A fierce wind and rain pummeled the docks as the black clouds finally opened up. And on top of all that, this damned Nopon porter wasn't letting him onto the boat.

"What do you mean this ticket is _no good_?" Flynn barked over the storm.

"No good," the Nopon chided. "It's expired."

"Listen you," Flynn pleaded, "We _need_ to get off Mor Ardain. Look at this rain! We're getting soaked out here! How about we all just get under deck and sort this out?"

"Nothing doing. No ticket, no ride."

"Arghhhh," Flynn said.

Just then a flight of Ardainian soldiers came into view running across the port. They accosted every sailor and stevedore in their path, searching for something. Or _someone_. Flynn gave Atawn a worried look. But as he did, a massive gale swept across them and snatched his knit hat right off his head. It landed meters away in the cloud sea.

"What?" said the Nopon. "A Gormotti?"

"HEY! There he is!" shouted the lead soldier. "Stop, you!"

Flynn swore. "Architect's balls, I _need_ to get a better hat. Alright Atawn, Plan B!"

He swung himself onto the elk's saddle and they both launched back to the piers. Atawn turned to face the choppy, rolling cloud sea ahead. "There!" Flynn pointed, "go for that one!" Atawn began—a slow trot towards a long dock, but quickly built speed. By the end of it, he was racing—an unoccupied pier to their front with nothing by the dark cloud sea around them. Then, at the last moment, Atawn jumped. They flew over rolling waves and ominous fish-shaped shadows, getting closer and closer to a newly launched ship, until finally Atawn landed on its wooden deck with a massive _thunk_ , spewing himself and Flynn onto it as they rolled to a stop.

"Damn," Flynn said, "that was a massive jump."

"Definitely one of my better ones," said Atawn.

"We should keep a record book or someth—"

A sharp point to Flynn's shoulder cut him off. He turned and saw a rifle muzzle staring him in the face. And he _hated_ rifles in his face. Some big, ugly Urayan carried it, with a beautiful woman folding her arms next to him.

"And just who the hell are you two," said the woman in a way that wasn't a question.

"Well," Flynn began, "I'm Flynn Lastell, and this is my friend Atawn. We're—"

"Shut it. I shouldn't have asked. Throw 'em below, Jerome."

"Wait," Flynn pleaded, "perhaps we could speak with the captain? This is just a big misunderstanding. Surely we can explain it to him."

She was already walking away when she said, "You're speaking to her. And this isn't."

An hour later, Flynn and Atawn had gotten as used to the smell of urine and gunpowder as you could get. Their clothes were soaked through and Flynn was feeling more than a bit nauseous and angry. Their "brig" was little more than a storage box. The thing didn't even have a window. He and Atawn had been sprawled over old barrels and boxes, trying—and failing—to keep the feeling in their legs for the better part of the hour. Finally, the door swung open again.

"So what's your story?" asked the captain. She really was good-looking; short lavender hair over an almond-brown complexion. She wore those coats, breeches, and boots that all spoke of a hard life at sea, but those eyes of her's—damn, they were nice. Under normal circumstances Flynn would've tried to sweep her off her feet. But right now he _really_ wasn't in the mood.

"I'm not that interesting," he said to the wall.

"Try me."

He glared at her. "I'm the Architect."

"Not gonna talk? Well how about your Blade then?" Flynn and Atawn gave each other a hard look while she smiled. "You think I don't know? I've been around way too long for that. You both reek of ether and a few other foul things. So what'll it be, Mister Elk?"

Atawn coughed. "Madam, I don't—"

"Listen," Flynn cut him off, "are you gonna kick us off this ship or not? Mor Ardain's been a blast but we'd _strongly_ prefer not to return," he paused a second before adding, "Miss…?"

" _Captain_ Dari Cadhan. And I ain't in the business of killing men without a reason, but maybe my crew has one. Care to add to your case? Your time's almost up."

Flynn folded his hands, with not but the sounds of creaking oak around them.

"Suit yourself," she said with a slight smirk. She closed the door and turned the iron tumbler with an audible _click_.

Atawn shifted. "Flynn, there's a real possibility that Mor Ardain will chase this ship. They saw us land here. We should tell her."

"That's her problem."

"She's just protecting her crew! You'd do the exact same."

"Yeah," Flynn growled, "that's exactly what I'm doing right now."

Gods, if only she hadn't taken his stilettos! Flynn _knew_ he could've charmed the lock with one. Or used one of Atawn's Blade Arts or something. He sulked and banged his head on the damp wall.

Above them, the sound of running boots hammered against the wood. They heard muffled yells and curses and the ringing of a low bell. Whatever was happening had started a fierce commotion, though Flynn and Atawn were no longer privy to that sort of information. The ruckus continued for ten or fifteen minutes until they heard something new—a loud splash just off the boat, like some huge fish. Either something had been thrown overboard, or something else was coming…

Atawn looked uneasy. "You don't think—"

Whatever he was about to say got cut off by the shrill whistle of mortar. Cannons.

"Gods damn it," Flynn screamed, "get down!" He flung himself atop Atawn, just seconds before the entire wall exploded in shrapnel. Wood and metal rained over them all at once, cutting their skin and knocking them around. The noise was like thunder and Flynn had the feeling of both floating high up and sinking down to the cloud sea floor.

When he no longer felt new pressure, Flynn gingerly pushed back against his coat of debris. He wasn't dead. Chunks of old ship fell around him, and he frantically scooped the rest around Atawn. Finally, he uncovered the elk's face.

Atawn blinked his eyes open. "Gods…I told you…"

Flynn smiled. "Right. Time for me to start questioning every one of my decisions and time for _you_ to get up. We need to leave. _Now_."

Where their oak door used to be was now a gaping hole. The rolling ocean swept below them and stairs opened towards the main deck to their right. They chose the second option.

Captain Cadhan's ship had transformed into a war scene. Dozens of sailors were engaged with Ardainian soldiers, fighting tooth and nail with clubs and swords. Already the wood deck was littered with bodies, some waling from pain and others ominously unmoving. The sound of rifle fire punctured the yells, and Flynn saw the marksmen standing atop the landing over them. To their right stood a behemoth—a Mor Ardain war-class frigate spewing men like a newly kicked hive. A web of ropes and ladders knit the ships together, which sailors fought frantically to dislodge. Small fires had erupted where gunpowder and open flame had become uncontrolled. It was a gaping mess of chaos and fighting and death.

And it was all his fault.

Flynn clenched his teeth, eyeing the lifeboat to their left—wholly unnoticed by the people fighting around it. It'd be so easy to escape. But he wouldn't. He was responsible. A fierce swell of rage against Mor Ardain burned in his gut as he turned to Atawn. "Can you fight?"

The elk smirked. "Thought you'd never ask."

They ran down the steps and into the fray. Flynn tackled the nearest soldier, pushing him to Atawn who launched the man overboard. He moved to the next and kicked the back of his knees. The soldier hit the floor and the sailor he'd been fighting discharged him with a sword. The sailor looked at Flynn, gave him a nod, and turned to the next man. Flynn and Atawn did the same, dispatching as many men as they could. As Driver and Blade—even without a weapon to focus the ether—they were by far the most deadly pair onboard.

Soon they found themselves near the big Urayan from earlier. Flynn fought his way towards the man and got him within arm's reach. "Hey!" Flynn yelled. "Where's the captain?" The Urayan eyed him questioningly, so Flynn gestured to the pile of downed soldiers sprawled across the deck in his wake. He got the picture.

"Quarter deck, mannin' the helm," he barked. Flynn gave him a baffled expression, so the Urayan pointed instead.

"Ah," Flynn said. "Big steering wheel thing. Got it."

He and Atawn shifted directions, rushing towards their new goal. All around, the ship's condition was quickly worsening. Thick chunks of the railing had been hacked away by stray swords and spears, and toppled barrels spilled ale and oil across the wood. Flynn stopped immediately at the base of the stairs. As if ordained by the Architect, his stilettos lay untouched on a nearby plank. He plucked them up, hurried up the steps, and found the ship's captain keeping half a dozen soldiers at bay on top.

"Back, you!" Dari shouted. "Unless y'all favor a slow death. I dipped this spear in poison myself."

Atawn gestured at Flynn's new stilettos. "Heh," he said, with the tone of a gambler holding a winning hand, "it's good to be back my friend."

"You know it," Flynn replied. He pointed one knife at the men and yelled, " _Acacia wind_!"

An ether-induced gale swept over the ship's quarter-deck with enough force to knock all six soldiers into the sea. The boat creaked and groaned, leaning at a sizable angle while soldiers and sailors alike slide across its ale-covered deck.

Dari—without a word of thanks—turned to the Ardainian frigate and scowled. She spread her arms across the wood bannister and stared at the monolith over them, speaking to Flynn and Atawn. "Can't escape, can't hit 'em back." She shook her head. "We can't win this fight."

Then the fight changed. Arrow loops opened across the Ardainian ship's port side—like hornets emerging from the hive—and archers began to rain down fire-tipped arrows from above. It was a scene like something taken from the climactic act of a play. While most arrows were blown astray, many hit their mark. Small fires started immediately. And soon a miniature blaze was tearing apart the broken barrels and detritus that littered the ship's deck.

Dari scrambled for vantage, shrieking once. "Those idiots! I'm carrying dragon oil on this ship. They'll kill us all!"

"What the _hell_ is dragon oil?" Flynn yelled.

As if in response, two small _pops_ came from below—something like sound of a pipe getting unplugged. Every sailor across the deck turned. They then raced away as if hell itself were on their heels, yelling and cursing while the Ardainian soldiers stared in utter confusion.

Then the forecastle exploded.

The entire ship rocked back at an unimaginable angle, throwing debris and massive chunks of wood at every direction. The web of ropes that connected both ships tore away from each side, and a new hole gaped from the mouth of the Ardainian ship. After a moment, an emergency alarm started from within the frigate. Horrible sounds of breaking wood seemed to chain together, making it impossible to tell which ship they were coming from. And then the screams started. Men and women who couldn't get away fast enough had taken the brunt of the damage, and Flynn hadn't the stomach to approach the railing and survey the result.

Dari—who'd been thrown to the floor—drew herself up and immediately returned to her makeshift lookout. She scanned the scene in horror for a single moment. And then yelled: "ABANDON SHIP!"

Sailors scrambled to the lifeboats, bringing with them as many wounded as they could. Others—who had already been thrown into the sea—jumped atop the huge blocks of wood to make craft of their own. Men swam around the ship like ants from an anthill, moving in random directions so long as they were going _away_ from the craft.

"Dari," Flynn yelled. "That means us too! This ship can't keep itself together for much longer."

She turned on him, furry in her eyes, "I'm not leaving until all of my men get off first."

And then Flynn heard another _pop_.

He didn't have time to warm her. He didn't even have time to think. Instead, he yelled " _Atawn_!" as he threw himself between Dari and the observation railing. His Blade got himself to Flynn's front—creating a sort of shield around the woman—just as the second explosion hit. Flynn had that same feeling of weightlessness from when the cannon hit. But this time, everything went black.

Flynn woke to the brush of cloud sea on his face. He leaned on a hard surface— _wood_ , he realized—and heard the caw of gulls overhead. A wash of orange light covered his closed eyes. When he blinked them open, he saw the sunset.

His head felt like he'd been kicked by a group of angry, drunken boars, and his arms and legs screamed from small cuts. But he was still, stubbornly alive—the pain made _that_ much excruciatingly clear.

Flynn lay on his back and stared upwards, letting the waves lap around him. He was on a massive craft; dozens of boats were docked a little ways off. He could hear far-off conversations, yelling, and laughing. And above him, in gaudy, gold lettering cut from a huge piece of old wood, announced the place that he'd washed up: "The Free Merchants of Argentum".


	3. Argentum Sins

Chapter 3: Argentum Sins

Location: Free Merchants of Argentum, Callahan's Chance Den, Lowest Deck

Time: 23:59

* * *

"Alright gents, last chance to stop me."

Flynn placed his final two cards face-down. The two men across from him stared, as if the thin paper concealed some venomous insect. One let out a low growl. The other slammed the table, toppling little piles of chips and yelled " _Challenge_!"

Their dealer flipped both cards—a pair of scythes. Both men groaned audibly. The dealer folded the cards back in his deck and withdrew two small glasses of brown liquid, placing them directly in front of the men. "Fourth round to the gentleman and lady!"

Flynn flashed a large grin at Dari, who looked completely unamused.

Liar's Peril was a game of deception. Players began with a hand of twelve, drawing from the center and playing pairs face-down, with the winner getting out first. The trick, though, was to also play _unpaired_ cards. Each pair remained unknown unless disputed, and the unfortunate loser to guess wrong was shot some (likely illegal) liquor. Players had to drink to continue. There were always two ways to lose Liar's Peril—run out of money or pass out drunk.

And as it happens, it was the only way Flynn, Dari, or Atawn were getting out of there alive.

"Fifth round," said their dealer. A small crowd had gathered to watch Flynn and Dari fence with two of Argentum's wildest provocateurs. They were three floors below sea level in a room hazy with cigar smoke and cloud sea runoff. Two dozen tables just like their's were piled with little wood chips each worth a small army. Men and women drifted around—the right sort of people who wouldn't be seen in any of the official channels—the pulsing heart of the underworld that, until washing up here yesterday, neither Flynn, Dari, or Atawn had any idea existed.

"Hold the cards," said Flynn, drawing everyone's eyes. Even Dari looked at him questionably. "I think I'll require a brief recess, if the gentlemen would be willing, of course. Wanna stretch my legs, take care of a few things. You know how it is."

Every eye turned to their opponents. To offer a break in Liar's Peril was the card table equivalent of spitting in their faces. The game was literally built on time. By all respects they should be furious at the insult—perhaps furious enough to _finally_ respond to Flynn's bluff. He didn't need the break, of course. His hands were sturdy as a surgeon.

The men eyed each other, and Flynn could've sworn he saw a sort of subtle hand-gesture flash between them. Then, unexpectedly, they rose in tandem.

"We will gladly accept, of course. Our gracious audience deserves a moment to refill their drinks. Say, fifteen minutes?"

"By all means," Flynn beamed. He stood while Dari looped her arm through his. They then left through the thinly veiled stairs at the back.

Once sea level, they walked straight to the rear stables. Surprisingly, the sun was now hours gone and a distant moon now limply lit the cloudless night. There were all the smells of an old sea settlement—salt, oiled wood, gunpowder—and the wind carried a musk of hay and wet animals from their approaching destination. Not much talk crossed the waves, aside from the occasional babble of a drunkard. Gulls cawed overhead. It was the type of calm that Flynn hated. That very moment Gormott could be burning to a scorched husk and there he was, powerless to stop it.

"I don't like this plan."

Flynn raised an eyebrow. "You helped think it up."

"You're taking forever! My men are _still_ out there. Every second is another chance for them to drown or be killed."

"And you think it's not the same for me?" he said with a scowl. "My people might be getting killed as we speak!"

Her eyes were ice. "Listen, asshole. Despite that being _your_ problem you brought it down on _my ship,_ costing _my men_ their lives."

"And yet I still saved your's, _captain_."

"Congratulations! One life for dozens! Do you want a celebration? Some cake, perhaps?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, let's just get this boat so we can leave and never see each other again."

"Wonderful," she smiled.

Finally they arrived at the stables—a large partitioned platform where the pack-animals of the rich mixed with those meant for future slaughter. Every animal in Argentum coalesced into this one spot, and every man, women, and Nopon that needed one would pass through it. Near the entrance, Atawn stood with a perfectly bland and inauspicious look on his face.

"What news?" Flynn whispered as he and Dari put their backs to the pen.

"Oh, other than the absolutely _banal_ talk of women and beer and treasure and _more women_ that these men seem to think so utterly interesting?" Atawn retorted.

"I'd hope so," said Dari. "Otherwise putting you here was a complete waste of time, just like everything else we've done."

Atawn sighed. "Sorry. Stakeouts are my least favorite assignment. Well, talk is that our Ardainian fleet passed by yesterday morning. At that rate, they would've arrived at Gormott this afternoon."

"Perfect," Flynn said.

"I also hear those two men you're playing are more than just merchant opportunists. Before Argentum they were at some place called Temperantia. Lead a group of Urayans in and came back alone. Smells rotten."

"We knew that going in. They're also the only ones liberal enough to gamble away a boat. Our options are limited."

"Make sure you watch yourselves, Flynn."

"Anything else?"

"Just some bloke called Bana saying he'll unite all the Argentum merchants into a guild or something."

Dari snorted. "Fat chance. These men are basically all warlords. No way anyone would tie them without _a lot_ of blood."

"Doesn't matter much either way," Flynn said with a glance at the main vessel. "Alright, back we go. Atawn, meet us at the northwest dock in two hours. If all goes well, we'll be leaving straight from there."

The elk nodded. "Good luck."

Two hours later, Flynn was staring at the worst hand he'd been dealt in his life. Ten empty bottles lined the table between him and Dari, and he was more than a bit drunk. Fortunately, an equal number of bottles lay overturned opposite them. Flynn's vision felt less stable than a rowboat in a hurricane, but in return a sizable pile of chips lay directly in front of him. They were worth a small fortune. Or, one might say, worth a single, magnificent _boat_.

"Done," said the men to his right as he placed down two cards. He smiled at Dari in a way that made Flynn nearly gag.

Flynn turned and sent his own look at her as well— _should we challenge this?_ —one that he hoped was appropriately subtle. Based her expression, it wasn't. He decided to leave the play unanswered.

The dealer waited a cordial few more seconds before declaring, "Nineteenth round to the gentlemen."

Chips moved from one end of the table to the other.

"I'm as fond of getting my ass handed to me as the next man," said Flynn with little need to fake the slur in his words, "but how about we make this a bit more interesting?"

The man to his right grunted. "What'd you have in mind, _baratti_?"

 _Baratti_ , Flynn thought. _Foreigner_. Now _that_ was a good sign; the man was suitably pissed. Flynn gestured to his remaining pile of chips. "All in at the next round."

The man scowled. "Apparently your ass isn't the only thing you're missing. Count it out. We haven't the chips to match."

"Perhaps there's something else," Flynn said. "Your boat?"

He snorted.

Dari smiled and jumped in. "Think you'll lose it, do you?"

"It's no simple thing that you two are doing," growled the previously silent fourth man at their table. "We aren't men to be goaded."

"Apologies," said Dari sweetly, "we're new here."

The man stared at her for a long moment and then nodded at the dealer. "My craft will cover their bet." In response, the dealer withdrew two simple wooden stick with ten painted lines each—the metaphorical equivalent of the massive bet Flynn and Dari were now making. And just like that, they were in the game.

"Round twenty, then," the dealer said with the slightest hint of real emotion. Flynn, Dari, and the other two were each dealt twelve cards. Dari began by pairing four of them in quick succession. But they lost their lead when one of the men rid himself of eight. Flynn challenged each play and received a new drink each time. In the span of ten minutes, he'd drunk half a liter and they'd nearly finished the round—Dari with two cards, the merchants each with four, and Flynn with an embarrassing twelve. All that was to say, he at least had a generous reserve of cards to send to Dari with every move.

Flynn eyed her expectantly. And, as usual, a brick wall would've displayed more emotion.

 _Well_ , he thought, _screw it_. He chose the ace of chalices and pushed towards to her. By all counts, it was the best move. That card hadn't yet appeared and surely that meant _someone_ was holding its twin. Dari grabbed his card, thought for a second, and placed her final two cards face down.

"The gods are kind," she said simply.

Without a second's hesitation both men yelled their challenge on top of each other. The dealer flipped her cards and revealed two aces. Mingled applause made its way around their audience, although Flynn assumed most there hadn't expected him and Dari to win so quickly. Or at all, really.

The men stared—first at their two new bottles of liquor, and then at the pieces of wood that represented their ship. Mingled horror, confusion, and rage painted their faces in rapid succession.

Flynn gave them the biggest smile he could muster as he grabbed the winnings.

"Good game, fellas. Truly, had a blast. But if you'd pardon us, my date and I have an urgent matter that's just come to our attention."

They didn't waste another moment. He and Dari quickly part the crowd and returned topside at what must've been the third hour of the morning, before anyone could challenge their departure. The moon was gone, the sky was starless, and it felt as though the air itself wasn't fully real. Flynn fought a mounting headache in his struggle to keep pace with Dari. But despite the sheer length of the northwest docks, they seemed to have reached it in no time at all. They were suddenly on a wide, low pier surrounded by craft of all shapes and sizes.

And in the pier's center was Atawn's shadow.

Flynn waved at his displaced companion. "Yo! Atawn—"

A scream cut him off.

To his left, Dari was gone. Instead, a few large, menacing shadows were slouching around the silently docked crafts. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, but he soon realized just how screwed they were. More Urayans. And these had clubs. Someone must've taken out an order to have him disposed, and by the Architect, he had a few good guesses as to who it was.

"Hey assholes," Flynn yelled, "out for a nighttime stroll, are we?"

The closest to him took no pause. He thrust himself towards Flynn with a blurry speed. Fortunately, despite his inebriation, Flynn's years of training moved him automatically. He parried the man's tackle and grabbed his shoulders, added some force, and sent him straight into the cloud sea.

The next was more difficult. Flynn recognized the cat-of-nine-tails club he was wielding—a devilish little device with strands of barbed wire that flew at dangerously random angles. Flynn had been on the unfortunate receiving end of it a few years back and he still had scars. The Urayan swung it, Flynn dodged, and the dance repeated. After a misstep on a floorboard, Flynn rolled forward onto the deck. And he found himself back to back with Dari.

"Ambush," she said with a ragged breath.

"Probably planned from the beginning."

"I'm starting to think you're bad luck." She spat onto the floor. "Watch it!"

Dari pulled his arm and sent a kick behind him. The Urayan he hadn't seen grunted and stumbled back. However, in doing so she was blind to the one to his front. Flynn ducked down and sprung forward, punching the man in what he thought was his solar plexus. And he followed that with an elbow to his jaw.

Flynn swung around. Dari had locked hands with her opponent, who towered a full four feet above her. Ah, he thought, now _there_ was an idea. "Dari!" Flynn yelled while flinging himself forward onto his hands and knees. He positioned himself just behind the Urayan, and a simple shove from Dari sent the huge man sprawling backwards, over Flynn, and onto the hard wood deck. He fell still the moment he hit the wood.

Dari was still breathing haphazardly when Flynn picked himself up. "That's the last of 'em."

A genuine smile came to him. "We make a good team, captain."

She snorted. "Leave first, talk later."

They ran back to Atawn's shadow, which hadn't moved the entire time. And he saw why when they arrived. By Flynn's best guess, the elk was beaten minutes before they arrived; he was bruised, wet with salt water, and half-conscious. Flynn knelt down immediately. "Hey, Atawn. Speak to me."

Atawn wheezed. "Seen better days. Thank the Architect you came when you did."

Flynn let out a breath. "My fault. That last round took longer than I'd thought."

"He won us the game, though," Dari said.

Flynn looked at her. She gave him a wink.

Atawn coughed. "Gods, I'm done with Argentum. Please tell me we can leave now."

"Well, there's our new boat," Dari said with more uncharacteristic optimism. Ahead of them was a craft larger than even the one Dari had brought them here in. It was, by Flynn's amateur eye, a thing of beauty.

" _Your_ new boat," Flynn said. "Atawn and I just need one of its lifeboats to get where we're going."

"Hey, wait now—"

He held up a hand. "We just need a way back to Gormott, Dari. You have a whole crew to find. Plus, you wouldn't even be in this mess had we not come along."

She folded her hands. "Can't say you're wrong."

He nodded, too tired to offer a proper response. It _was_ his fault, he'd own up to that.

"Hey, Flynn." He looked up. She was smiling. "Good luck."

He snorted and looked away. "You too. Architect knows we both need it."


End file.
